Do not hesitate to ask for help
by Author1
Summary: A short challenge from Livejournal.


_I wrote this for a challenge at livejournal. The challenge was to write a story around the title of the story. Hope you like it._

He turned back into the hallway when he saw it was just her, alone, in the kitchen

He turned back into the hallway when he saw it was just her, alone, in the kitchen. He had just passed the clock when she spoke. He stopped, as if frozen to the spot. The sound of Ginny's voice breaking the deafening silence between them.

"They've gone to Aunt Muriel's. Trying to convince her that every thing's going to be all right."

He turned around to stare straight at her. She looked strangely small sitting at the huge kitchen table all by herself, as if the table was made for somebody bigger than her. It was even stranger to see her with just a cup of tea; He was used to seeing it full of food and crowed with people.

"You're speaking to me again," he said in a tone which was a mixture of surprise and accusation. He hadn't wanted a tone of accusation to show, and surprised himself when the accusing tone leaked from his mouth.

It have been three months since the battle of Hogwarts, Harry's eighteenth birthday had passed with a quick celebration with the Weasley's. Ginny had somehow avoided him, and he, stupidly, hadn't wanted to push her.

Everybody knew their history. Even Mrs. Weasley knew, although he didn't know how she knew. She had asked him after the war how long it would take. He had answered as long as it takes, and manged to leave it as that. He certainly hadn't expected to be discussing it with Mrs. Weasley, of all people. Ron and Hermione had hinted as well, but they were easier to shrug off.

"I never stopped," she said, looking serious. He walked into the kitchen.

"I missed the sound of your voice," he said. She indicated to the chair next to her, waiting for him to sit. He pulled the chair away from the table and sat.

"What caused this change of heart?" he asked again expecting a proper answer this time.

"Well, I've been helping out at the Quibbler, while it gets back on its feet, and one of my jobs is the Problem Page."

"Right," his face was expressionless, as if he were trying to work out the connection.

"And I got this letter from this boy who was scared to tell the girl he loved that he still liked her after he broke up with her during the war. She lost family. He's still very close to her family, he sees her all the time, but he is conflicted about asking her out again because he wonders how long she would need to recover."

"What was your reply?" he asked, keeping the look on his face interested, rather than giving anything away.

"I'm still contemplating my answer," she gave him a weak smile.

He avoided her gaze by looking down at the floor, "Do you think she'd be upset if he suddenly started to speak to her after that long? Do you think she blames him for the death of her brother?" he scuffed his shoe along the floor. He didn't know why he suddenly blurted out the words; the question was a raw point, but it needed to be asked. It was something that he had gone over and over in his head about 60 million times.

He felt warmth on his hand. It spread up his hand and into his shoulder. He looked up. She had put her hand on top of his. He blushed at the intimacy of the moment. They been much closer in previous times, but this was different.

"I don't think he would need to ask that. I think that he already knows the answers. He doesn't need to ask for help. "

He smiled, and looked up into her face.

"She just needs some more time, right?" he said, gazing deep into her soft brown eyes.

"Yes, I think that's what she needs. See, he doesn't need any help, he's already got the answers," she said. She leaned in toward him, her flowery smell overpowering him. Suddenly, she snapped her fingers.

"That's what I tell him; that he doesn't need to ask for help. He will know."

He swallowed hard, as if his mouth was suddenly bone dry, "I better get back home, then." He pointed to the door and stood, forcing himself to move away from her.

As he approached the door, Ginny spoke again, "Harry, tell Hermione that was a great idea. It was really sweet."

"How do you know it wasn't mine?" he asked, nonplussed. The façade had been broken with her previous few words.

"Yours and Ron's would have been something public, like sixth year. Hermione would have called it moronic, and told you a better idea. So maybe we all need that extra helping hand sometimes," She grinned as he turned, the first proper grin he had seen on her for a long time. Unfortunately, he knew that smile only too well. She was planning something.

But he couldn't complain; the real her was coming back.


End file.
